


Visitors

by yukishiido



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Gen, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2013-10-13
Packaged: 2017-12-29 08:13:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1003053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yukishiido/pseuds/yukishiido
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Night Vale does not like stories. It does not appreciate visitors. And Cecil--poor, sweet Cecil--works for Station Management.</p>
<p>The angels can see you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Visitors

The town is a lot smaller than I expected it to be. Driving past the deep purple welcome sign, I sigh.

Night Vale.

It sounds ominous.

It also sounds like a really good place to get a scoop.

My name is Adelaide Jones. I'm a journalist.

Or so I tell myself. I used to work for the Southwest Journal, but they fired me. "Too difficult," they said. I know exactly why: Night Vale. People from all over the Southwest had gone missing after insisting on visiting here. They never came back, their families said, never even said goodbye. It was never a calling, or a weird feeling, nothing so much like fiction. It was always rumors--a glowing cloud raining animals, wheat turning into snakes.

I guess that's why I'm here, too. Nothing concrete; just the whispers of conspiracy nutjobs and occult loonies. "Nobody leaves," "you can never return," all that horror-movie bullshit. And then people went missing.

Perhaps it's better-suited for the police.

I've never heard of anyone investigating the town, though. It's even possible the police are working with whoever runs things here.

I drive a little further into the town. Houses pass on either side of me, and several businesses--all of them seem perfectly normal. Where would I start?

And then I see it: a shiny silver building, set in the style of '50s diners. The sign read MOONLITE ALL-NITE DINER, lit neon green. "It's a start," I tell myself as I kill the ignition.

Slamming the car door shut behind me, I pull a small notepad from my purse, slide the pencil from the binding. The diner is slow--I must have missed the lunch rush. What time was it? I swear I'd left just before ten, and the drive was only two hours, yet my watch says it's four.

Time flies, I guess.

It's not as hot as I thought a small desert town would be.

I approach the bar, where there's a sign proudly proclaiming that Moonlite All-Nite has the best strawberry pie in Night Vale.

Charming.

"Hello?" I say aloud. "Is anyone here?"

"No," comes a flat response. "Just me."

To my left, I realize I've overlooked someone. She's round, wrinkled, with smoky eyeshadow and a cigarette in her mouth. I bite back a smirk. "You're no one?" I ask.

"May as well be," the woman responds. "All I do is bring out food. Don't handle money."

Oh, no. Don't let her tell a story, please. I'm here for journalism, not the babbling of a halfwit small-town diner waitress.

"No, that's for the sugar packets," she's continuing, "And the glasses."

She's crazy. I hate small towns.

"Listen," I cut in. "Who's the town gossip?"

"What?"

"The town gossip. This is a small place--you've got to have someone who knows things."

"We don't like rude people here."

I sigh. "Listen, I'm sorry--I've had a long drive. I'm doing a story on Night Vale, and--"

The woman cuts me off, her eyebrows narrowing. "We don't like stories here."

What the hell is that supposed to mean? I roll my eyes, turn around dramatically, and begin walking toward the door. The woman calls to me. "Old Woman Josie, out by the car lot," she says, "Talk to her. The angels tell her everything."

I thank her, and get back into my car. The car lot shouldn't be hard to find. The drive is silent, though, and it's unbearable, so I turn on the radio. Continuing down the main road, I see a few burned-out buildings--the remainder of their signs seem to say they were pizza places. How many of those would such a small town have?

Then again, it's not the weirdest thing here. I turn the corner onto another road, hoping it'll take me a little closer to the edge of town, and see a large dome. NIGHT VALE STADIUM is printed on it in large letters, and I drive closer. At its entrance, I can see a man--I think it's a man--in a dark cloak and hood. Pulling over, I stop to ask him for directions.

"Could you tell me where the car lot is?" I say. "I'm a little lost."

The man doesn't respond. Instead, he lifts its arm and points, and I feel buzzing in my ear almost as if someone was tuning a television to the wrong station.

And then my radio begins to screech. I wince, scramble for the volume, and the sound from it turns completely to static before fading away completely as I manage to hit the button. I turn, but the figure is gone. I spare a brief moment to wonder if perhaps he'd just watched too many episodes of Batman. Fuckin' small towns.

Driving the way the hooded figure pointed, I turn my radio back up. A man's calm voice comes from my speakers. It's a news broadcast.

"I have been told that John Peters--you know, the farmer--has just sold another crop of imaginary corn. We're proud of you, John! In other news, Big Rico's--"

I tune it out. Coming up on the car lot, I notice a series of travel trailers all situated next to one another as if a makeshift trailer park. Each of them has their own awning, and a square of artificial grass in front of it. Otherwise, the lot is barren: paint and asphalt and gravel.

The sun is bright, beating down on me. It's hotter than it was earlier.

Notebook in hand, I knock on the door of the first. Nobody answers.

I knock on the second, and after a few moments of rustling, a woman answers. She is small, thin, and very clearly old. The lines in her face make her look as if she's smiling even before she is. I like her instantly. "Hello there," she says. "Can I help you?"

Her voice is shaky. She sounds like my grandmother.

"Yes, actually--I'm looking for Josie?"

A look of recognition dawns on the woman's face, and she nods. "Oh, yes, that's me--Old Woman Josie, out by the car lot. Come in, come in, have a cup of tea. The angels are out at the moment, but you can talk with me."

The inside of her trailer is pink. Her couch and her table are pink, her carpet--everything. There's a framed photo of a cat on the kitchen counter, and I can't help but think that she'd be more at home at Hogwarts than in a tiny trailer. It works, somehow.

"Oh, it's already six?" she says, and I take back the insult.

Wait, six? It had been four when I'd stopped at the diner. I blink, shake my head. Losing track of time, that's all.

"If you'd like, you can stay for dinner," Josie is saying. "Although you know, I don't think I ever caught your name."

"Adelaide," I say. "Adelaide Jones."

Josie hands me a mug of steaming liquid, and then pushes open her front door. "Let's sit outside, Adelaide. It's much too nice to be cooped up in my little home." And then, when we're on her lawn chairs: "Now, tell me what brings you to Night Vale."

"I'm a reporter."

"Ah, yes. The angels told me that."

Here we go again. "What else did they tell you?" I say. "That I spit green goo and rotate my head in my sleep?"

"Oh, no, dear." Josie sounds amused, as if I'd told her a joke. "Nothing so cliche. They told me you're a journalist, although I'm not sure where you're from--it's not Desert Bluffs, is it?"

"No, ma'am."

"Good. Desert Bluffs is an awful place. What is it you'd like to know? We don't take very kindly to people looking into our little town, but I'm always willing to help a smart woman out."

"So I've heard."

  "You are one, right? A smart woman?"

  "I like to think so, ma'am."

I set down the mug and gaze past her, across the horizon. The sun is setting, sending streaks of brilliant red-violet sandstone across the sky, and I notice a faint glowing in the distance. Past it, I can make out something blotting out part of the sunset, glowing a faint neon yellow.

Josie seems to know what I'm thinking. "Oh, those are the lights. They're above the Arby's--we don't know what they are. Is that the Glow Cloud behind them? He's a strange one."

I shake my head. "I'm here about some visitors."

"Visitors? Oh yes, we've had a few. I haven't heard from them lately."

"That's why I'm here. I want to know where they've gone."

There's a pause as Josie tips the last of her tea into her mouth and swallows it thoughtfully. She puts the mug down on the concrete and regards me with a look of consideration. I can't tell what she's thinking.

"You've been warned that we don't like stories here, haven't you?"

Josie's tone isn't harsh. It's quite gentle, and I am aware that she's asking me a question, nothing more. "Yeah," I say. "I got that part."

"I just need to know that you understand what you're getting into."

"I'm a journalist, ma'am. I think I can take a small town."

There is a high-pitched whine, just a brief one, and then a deep voice. "A reminder, citizens--do not think about the dog park. It does not exist. The hooded figures are simply a figment of your imagination, and any children they may have taken, you never had."

The voice booms out across Josie's lawn and echoes through the car lot. I look around, but can find no radios large enough to explain the volume. There are no speakers, no televisions--is it coming from the lampposts?

"That's the man from the radio," I say. "The news broadcast."

"Oh, yes," Josie responds. "Cecil. He's such a sweetheart. He and Carlos are so cute together. The angels tell me they may even get married soon!"

"Married?"

"Yes, my dear." Josie smiles. "They've said Cecil wants to propose!"

"Cute." I frown. Theoretically, I'm was happy for this Cecil, but... "Who is he?"

"He works for the station. Cecil gives us the news, and then he reminds us to follow the rules. We cannot look at the dog park. We cannot eat wheat. We must vote to re-elect the city council. All of it is just as it's always been. Even the angels know that."

"Where can I find him?"

"Why, the radio tower, of course! You can't miss it--it's on the other side of town.

I sigh, and thank Josie for her time.

\---

The radio tower is painted a disgustingly-dark shade of purple, and I instantly know I don't like it. An overwhelming sense of dread overtakes me as I leave my car, and my hand shakes as I begin a page for what Cecil will tell me.

"A friendly reminder: the Night Vale Harbor and Waterfront Recreation Area do not exist. It has never existed. Also, vote for the city council."

I step into the station. I take a deep breath. My feet are heavy, dragging on the floor, and static electricity jolts the hair on my arms. With a deep breath, I continue down the hallway. Nobody is here. I come to a room filled with office cubicles; each cubicle is dark. The room seems to have some sort of black fog in it. My chest constricts, and I let out a cough.

"You shouldn't be here."

I jump. There is a man behind me, just inches away, and I let out a muffled scream. He is in a dark suit and bowtie, and his dark hair looks as if he's been running his hands through it, as if worried.

"You need to be quiet," he says, and I instantly recognize him as Cecil from the radio. "Station Management will hear you."

"And I care?"

"You should." He is speaking in hushed tones. Urgently, firmly, he continues. "You need to leave. Now."

"Why?"

"Station Management will not be happy."

"I don't give a rat's ass about your management. I'm here about the visitors from other towns. In the last three months, at least ten people from Arizona alone have disappeared after coming here. Where are they?"

Cecil looks around nervously, and I realize I can hear a humming sound. It is deep, and it rattles the objects in the cubicles around us. "They are somewhere you will be if you don't leave."

"Is that a threat?"

"It's a promise."

"Excuse me?"

Cecil steps backward, glancing around again. The humming intensifies. "You don't want to go through what the Apache Tracker did. I'm not asking you--leave. Station Management will not be happy if you don't. I won't be. They may not even let you go now."

I scowl at him, and step forward.

  "Please. For Carlos." Cecil takes another step back, and then another, and then he turns and runs away at full speed. The fog in the room becomes thicker as he does so, and I lose track of him. I blink, and suddenly I'm at the entrance.

What is this place?

I take a deep breath. Taking my keys from my purse, I walk to my car, and open the door. I look up one more time at the radio tower, and at the entrance of the station, I can see another hooded person. It points at me, and then it is no longer there--how on earth did it do that?

Another deep breath, and I turn the key in my ignition. It catches, and I sit down and close the door. My notebook is empty. Even the page just titled "Cecil" is gone. What am I supposed to do?

Think, Adelaide. Think.

Cecil said something about a tracker, an Apache Tracker. Something happened to him, something bad. Maybe he was a visitor just like the others.

But where would I find him?

I decide to drive.

It's nighttime. The moon hangs low in the sky, and I realize I'll have to find a hotel here in Night Vale. The thought isn't at all pleasant.

On a whim, I turn into the nearest parking lot. I see a Ralph's, and realize I'm hungry. I'll buy something from their deli, or maybe some ramen and ask if they have a microwave I can use. Something quick. I'd like to get out of here soon.

Cold air assaults me when I open the door. I shiver before my body gets used to it. I begin craving an apple, and I beeline for the produce section. On one stand, there is a small radio. I can hear Cecil talking, but I ignore him--he was no help. I look around, and by the oranges I see a man wearing a Native headdress.

Naturally.

I approach him. He turns to me and cocks his head slightly. "Do you like my headdress?"

I'm sure I look confused. "Excuse me?"

"My headdress. Everyone calls me racist for it, but I'm Native now. It looks good, doesn't it?"

"Sure."

"You look like you needed something."

I blink at the abrupt change in subject. "Er, yes--I wanted to ask you a few questions."

"Of course. I'm the Apache Tracker. I don't remember my real name. You needed to know that, right? You're a journalist."

"How did you know?"

"I've heard a little about you. The town's talking. The secret police aren't happy."

"Secret police?" I pull my pen from my notebook and immediately jot that down. Nobody else is in the produce section, but the Apache Tracker is looking around and scratching his neck, hand shaking.

"You know that pens are illegal, right?"

I nod at him. I don't care. "What do you mean?"

"The sheriff has his secret police. They make sure everything runs smoothly here. They outlawed pens. Visitors, too--he makes sure they're happy, but they don't leave. The hooded figures seem to like the sheriff. At least, I think so. They don't say much."

I scribble that down, too. He must be talking about the same hooded people that I've seen. Secret police, hooded figures, station management… how does anybody live here? Nothing makes sense.

Cecil's voice cuts into my thoughts just as the pen slips away from my hand.

"And now… the weather."

Time ceases to exist. The people around me stop, their faces blank. Even the Apache Tracker is still. A loud, high-pitched whine sounds through the store, and I wince, clapping my hands over my ears. The sound intensifies, louder and higher, louder louder louder _dear god make it_

Stop.

The store goes quiet. All I can hear is the flower cooler in the corner, rattling away; nobody makes a sound. I turn and look around, aware of the cadaver-stiff Apache Tracker near me. A woman in the organic section stands there with a blank expression, her arms at her sides. I see a box of cereal on the ground at her feet. Over by a display of canned goods I can see a man with shaggy hair, wearing a labcoat. He looks the same way, blank and stiff. A can of tomatoes is rolling away from him.

I blink.

The labcoat man is suddenly inches away from my face, his expression gone from blank to one of sheer anger. I jump back and let out a scream, and I flail into the organics woman, a similar look on her face. To my side is the Apache Tracker, and my other side another man, and another woman, and my body goes cold as I realize I'm surrounded.

  Their bodies contort, grotesque as their spines bend and their limbs snap. They take a single step toward me and their heads bobble even though their limbs stick out at odd angles. Multiple pairs of eyes are fixed on me, soulless and dull and absolutely devoid of life.

"LEAVE NIGHT VALE."

I can't tell who said it first. Maybe nobody did. All I know is that the voice is deep and distorted, as if it had gone through an audio filter.

"LEAVE NIGHT VALE."

It came from the Apache Tracker.

"LEAVE NIGHT VALE."

And then it came from the woman, and the man with the labcoat and the tan skin.

"LEAVE."

Everyone around me steps back. They blink, once, and then twice, and then suddenly they all let out a scream, the most painful noise I have ever heard. All of them are on the floor around me, writhing as if their insides are on fire, their eyes open as they seize.

And then the screeching whine goes through the store again, and everything stops. I blink, and the man in the labcoat is back at the canned tomatoes, and the woman is holding her cereal. The Apache Tracker is staring at me.

I bolt.

It's raining when I get outside. The parking lot is empty, even though there were people inside Ralph's, and I shiver. I can see the lights above the Arby's from across town, and behind it, the night sky is glowing with lightning.

My car doesn't start at first, and I scream. I'm not crying, even though my eyes burn in frustration. I let out a huff of anger, and turn the ignition again, and then it hums to life and the radio starts and all I can hear is Cecil's voice, as much in my head as it is in my speakers.

"A friendly reminder: visitors must check in with the city council. Station Management wants me to also remind you that Adelaide Jones must not leave town. I'm sorry."

I'm not sure what I can do, or what I should do. This place is insane.

Fuck Night Vale.

I shift the car into gear and speed out of the parking lot. The clock tells me it's already eleven, and my brain is screaming that something is very, very wrong.

No shit.

I don't know why, but I find myself speeding toward Old Woman Josie's house on the other side of town. The angels will protect me, I think. They have to.

There is a single streetlamp glowing in the middle of the lot, just outside of her trailer. It flickers when I close my car door, and I realize it is no longer raining.

No. No, that's wrong. It's raining--but it's stopped. Not frozen, not snow. The raindrops hover in the air in front of me, suspended there. I prod one with my finger and it bursts as if it is a bubble. I move, and I'm suddenly soaked through. I stop again and I realize there's a rumbling around me, a reverberation, deep and getting louder and louder.

The raindrops are vibrating.

And so is the ground. The streetlamp tilts, falls over, and hits the ground with a loud crash that sends glass everywhere.

The raindrops vibrate stronger, more violently, and they're glowing an unearthly purple just like the color of the radio station and I have the strangest feeling that Station Management is displeased.

"A friendly reminder: Adelaide Jones must not leave."

Cecil's cheerful voice comes from the streetlamp just as my vision is filled with light, and the raindrops all explode in front of me. It's raining again, raining purple and black and I know that I am not safe.

Josie's door opens and I can hear her shouting at me. "Get inside!" she's shrieking. "Hurry up, quickly--the angels are worried!"

My legs move before I even realize it, and then Josie's trailer is warm, and I have never been so happy to see so much pink. Josie has a blanket for me, and she hands it to me along with a mug of tea. "We will be safe," she says, "The angels will protect us."

And then I see it, just behind her: a tall and slender figure, dark, and humanoid yet very clearly not human. It is too tall to be a person, far too thin and stretched, and its eyes are glowing the same purple as the rain outside and I scream and scream and scream.

The blanket is on the floor and I am standing, but the thing, the angel is blocking the door. I hear a voice in my head--no, not hear. I just know what it is saying, but there is no voice, just the strangest sensation that my mind is glowing. You must sit down, the angel tells me, Sit down and stay warm. Sleep, Adelaide. Sleep.

I don't want to sleep. I don't want to, especially when I see Josie and the frown she wears. The lines on her face do not look friendly anymore and I know I am not safe.

I should never have come to Night Vale.

\---

The next thing I know, I am in the stadium. The grass is green and surrounded by thousands upon thousands of empty seats.

I am surrounded by darkness.

The hooded figures stand in a circle around me, and they all point. I think they open their mouths, but I cannot see their faces. All I can hear is static, white noise, and I realize that inside the stadium it is raining. I look up and all I can see are dark clouds, low to the ground.

My heart is pounding and I know I am about to die.

In the throng of figures I can see Cecil staring at me, shaking his head. He looks down at the ground, face forlorn. Beside him is Josie, wearing the same expression. An angel is holding her hand.

I move my arms and realize that I am handcuffed to a plastic chair. I rattle them, pull at them, and I think I must have done it in the time I cannot remember because my wrists are red and bleeding and tears stream down my face.

One of the hooded figures steps forward, and I cry out for help. Cecil says, "You should never have come. They don't like stories about us."

The static in my ears suddenly ceases.

And the figure nearest me motions at Cecil, who hands him a bundle of dark fabric, a robe not at all unlike theirs. And then it steps toward me with the robe, its hand outstretched. It looks like it is old, wisened; the skin is spotted with age and mottled a sickly purple-green-yellow. I shiver and look up into the darkness behind its hood.

I can hear Cecil again, and Josie too: "Welcome to Night Vale."

In that moment, I know exactly what happened to every other visitor.

The hooded figure takes a handful of my hair and pulls it back, gripping it tightly. It pulls out something from the robe, a key, and unlocks the handcuffs before pulling me to my feet. Other figures grab my arms and I flail, I kick out and catch one of them in the leg before two others force my feet down to the ground. I scream out, and suddenly my body is heavy as if gravity has increased, but the hooded figures pull the robe onto my arms and down across my body. I try to struggle, but they are too strong, and my body far too heavy. The robe is on me now, and I scream again, and Cecil and Josie and even the woman from the diner are watching and I wish they would help me.

I feel a scrabbling at my back, and the leader of the figures pulls at the robe's hood. I shake my head wildly, trying one last time to escape, but he lifts the hood and pushes it down and

 


End file.
